Thursday, July 18, 2013

My Name is Radu Doragu. / To remedy the separation,

Clarissa proposes that the self survives {"attached to this person or that, or even haunting certain places"} so that connections may be established across time.


Though taken from me, my sleep returns,
like Pocahontas from the secret temple
of Cthulhu, her hand inside 
the mouth of the speaking skull.
The words and slithering things
commingly, fervent,
and branded
by the deltaic
Radu was still sleeping beside her.

Beyond the yali, there were miles of empty beaches.
As a man I could roam free there, as a woman, less so.
I was neither. I was a torreador,
a broderi child torreador,
a carnation of incarnation,
fez above phizz,
now, I've folded up the accordion shutters,
the one's that tell my tale,
and in the distance, wisdom,
like a tent of pale blue semen,
houses an onyx lobster telephone thing,
the heavy rock insect bull
whose luminous green skeleton 
I mine for
with my wrathful 

Rather than ending with representation, we begin with representation.
Then, “What did you hear?” The question enters the object into a
relationship, an interrogation. When the representation is about to close
in on itself, we restate the question or displace one object with another.
As a second consequence of asking “What did you hear?” we situate our
sound practice in relation to specific constituencies, locations, conditions
and concerns. Most importantly, we organize listening as a collective rather
than as an individual procedure—listening as a relation to an other.

the iron filings are attracted to the magnet,
but the magnet
is a flower,
a carbuncle held aloft
by the will of millions of sea horses
like a foam of shaving cream.
Clipper Ship Vagina.

Get it straight monk.
We're here to kill and fuck.
Let your master know.
East Wind Blowing.
like a Tome's tone.
Literature is yellow hot pants
viewed by the unloved.
But Pastry.

I can't come over there tonight, oh, you know what they say? Right?
It's these golden telephones!
Love you too Donkey Balls!

I just can't get organized. Within the system of objects, their images,
the idea of it all, it disrupts my magnet field.
I have a chronic ne plus ultra category.
I'm willing to scale the bitterest peak
for the tiniest chuckle.
It causes a burning boogie ass, my feet
cascade, like heavy iron ping-pong balls
accelerating through a crystal maze.
A porcine domestication erupting
from a pristine sphere printed
with only a gigantic

Modernism is a pin-head,
and Materialism, fundamentally,
anti-intellectual, but that doesn't mean
we can't say otherwise, if only just for fun,
or because we're loony as a lupin knight
with snapping turtle nipple ladders.

No, Van Gogh was not mad, but his paintings were Greek
torches, atomic bombs whose angle of vision, in distinction to all
the other aintings existing at the time, would have been capable
of seriously fucking upsetting the grub-like conformity of the Second
Empire bourgeoisie and of the police spies of Thiers, Gambetta,
FClix-Faure, as well as those of Napoleon 111. For Van Gogh's
painting does not attack a certain conformity of convention so
much as the conformity of institutions.
I am that transparent troll, under the milky blue bridge,
and where the dowse goes, so goes the 
tetch to the tridge.
Seth, Seth, the multi-animal.

Poetry can haunt us.
Aztec As Text.
Bible Eve.
or Malinalli.
"Don Maria"
are the demon engine
of cultural agrocumulust.
Poem, like a sea of yellow dawns.
an odalisque of noise.
a sex amoeba.

You cut me off at the first word out of the chute:
Shem's goiterballoonbeard.

I grow here, in the slanted silence.
Ontology as Omphalos.
fragile beauty.
like a living emblem.
on a forgotten film.

I am the grey butter golem, brain puppet troll of
Tuskingoitcham bay, and as I say from this throne of deep ethos,
all aura is as aura, allura, all urra, anunda,

So that is the life-cycle of the Pirate Mite!
I was surprised when its chin grew burping microphone lice pollen,
and made that Southern Gothic swing (band)
from its eyeball tentacles.
Standard Genres are the devil's work.

I don't think you've quite grasped it old boy. You won't be accepted into the club,
and you shan't be able to rub the bony E with your feather duster chin spikenaard.
The group has put in charge of a committee to(..)
Oh brother.. Where do they dig up these coots.
Salvador Dali will paint his Robinson Crusoe
with brain damage crayons
for no one. so what.

I look so round today.
I'm so well-rounded.

Existentialism is sometimes profound-
ly disturbing.

I need some me time.
Yellow journalism.

I just can't find anything to wear, all thse
old skeletons are just so
clacky and dussty.
I'd feel everso like a 
'it's getting away with something'

Leonardo had such sweet pussy.

Time for Golf with the boys.

It's strange. We should feel like we're cut in two.
Like a Minotaur, Poe will haunt us.
white fly opium.

The life of a paintbrush is a secret joy.

Whoever made them up, the note family, is now a thriving gremlin state.

Go do the dishes Gronwina!
I command you!
I am Leopard Ruffina!
[Olga Doragu, mother of Radu Doragu]

I'm a well-rounded person.
Clean, and well-behaved.
I have an answer for everything, but
I hide the angles.
(nipple-llipsis [..  .])
"pefection itself is a birth defect"

Home Sweet Home.

According to Samuel
Beckett's influential study, "the Proustian solution" consists in "the negation
of Time and Death, the negation of Death because the negation of
Time."4 Beckett's book on Proust was published in 1931, but across all the
developments in Proust scholarship the account of his basic ontological
commitments has remained remarkably constant. In different variations,
Proust's major readers reiterate that the Recherche expresses a desire to
transcend temporal finitude. For Georges Poulet, Marcel's aesthetic experience
reveals "an essential self, liberated from time and contingency, a
primal and perpetual being, the creator of itself," so that "the existence
traveling in search of its essence finds it in timelessness."5 When Marcel in
the last volume "regains" time through the experience of involuntary
memory, he effectively gains access to a realm that is exempt from time.

We join like rivulets of pearl milk
alongside a gargantuan albino cucumber whale.
We are sperm-like space orca guitars.

You grow in me.
on me.
out of me.
I am the little stump,
and you 
the Chao Herm.

One day, as I was passing the old mill,
I saw a low-hovering Tetractys
of luminous dayglo starfish.

You won't get any poetry out of her like that!
Kick her in the stomach!

There's nothing out here but old shoes!

Panty Hose
Is everywhere.
I am panty hose.

all language is placenta talk.

Brief, broken, often painful as their actual
meetings had been what with his absences and interruptions ...
the effect of them on his life was immeasurable. There was a mystery
about it. You were given a sharp, acute, uncomfortable grain-the actual
meeting; horribly painful as often as not; yet in absence, in the
most unlikely places, it would flower out, open, shed its scent, let you
touch, taste, look about you, get the whole feel about it and understanding,
after years oflying lost. Thus she had come to him; on board



No mine and no thine to cherish secrets, restrain emotions . Cast
history apart the serpent healing in the "house of self-collection."
I nto the well-spring an anti-value generally accepted a fatal loss .
Criterion like old scrap iron , a sorry tatter looking the way.
The identification, the temptation to be , to forget what was once the
victory, the inborn gift.
It simply occurs, the return that blindness nature always needs to
know evading bad conscience . In any place glows the island, the
boldest whole but then certain submersion animates this sense
development .